


Simon and Falafel

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: 1960s, Adorable, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Boys In Love, Developing Friendships, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Musicians, New York City, Pining, Prompt Fic, Street Vendor - Freeform, Tumblr Prompt, falafel - Freeform, it's all about that symbiosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: “Not bad eh?” the man tells him after repeating the order and looking across the street. “Oh, and add some tomato sauce, will you?” he continues.“Yup, sure thing,” Art says, but he’s not entirely sure if he’s acknowledging the order or his customer’s statement about the music and the busker on the other side of the road. Art has to admit he’s getting curious now.Or: AU in which Art sells falafels from a cart in early 1960s New York City, and Paul is the college student who shows up busking on the other side of the road one day.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel & Paul Simon, Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 14
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In [this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234358/chapters/58789066) of Olippe's fic, first mention was made of Simon and Falafel. 
> 
> This, of course, spurred on a prompt [on Tumblr](https://simonandgarfunkel-incorrect.tumblr.com/post/619186404553064448/au-where-art-is-a-falafel-seller-on-a-cart-and) back in May, one that I considered immediately, but it took some time to actually work out the idea. AU's are hard! I'm entirely unsure about posting this, but, well, here it goes anyway.
> 
> The fic takes place in early 60s New York, because I didn't want there to be Social Media or cellphones, or anything of the sort. These two will eventually get together, and I've deliberately not included any (internalized) homophobia in the fic. I am well aware that in the sixties things weren't _that_ easy, or even now, but I just couldn't be bothered writing about it. I just wanted this fic to be happy instead. 
> 
> Anyway, hopefully you'll enjoy this! I'll try to post every week! 
> 
> Leave me an (anonymous) comment if you do like it, I LIVE for comments! :)

Art is setting up his cart on a Thursday morning in late July, and even though it’s only 9.30am in the morning, drops of sweat are already making their way down his back, staining his t-shirt dark and moist where it touches his spine. 

The weather report predicted a sweltering hot day. This foresight urged him to bring two parasols with him today. He can usually take advantage of shadow thrown by some of the higher buildings in the vicinity, but at one point in time, usually between 2pm and 3pm, the sun will burn unimpeded by brick or cloud on days like these. He’s come home with sunburn on his face and arms before, and with his light skin, blue eyes and blond, unruly curly hair, he’s sure he’s more susceptible to it than other people, so he likes to come prepared. 

He takes in his surroundings, trying to gauge if he’ll have a good day. The buildings behind him and in front of him are mainly office buildings. On the other side of the road is, for example, a Chase bank, and some of the employees regularly pass by his cart to buy their lunch. It would be too inaccurate to call them friends, but he does consider some of the regulars acquaintances, who will sometimes tell him little anecdotes and then rush off to the park for the remainder of their lunch hour to eat the food he prepared. Susan, for instance, a petite lady who will inevitably have her hair in a bun and wears a crisp dark grey pencil skirt by default, doesn’t have to say a word as she crosses the street every two days. When he sees her coming, he already starts preparing her falafels with a side order of garlic hummus and mint yoghurt dip. Like he’s complicit in a crime she’s not likely to commit, she’ll wink at him and whisper “I don’t work the till in the afternoon, so my garlic breath won’t bother anyone.” For that alone, he always adds a bit more garlic oil in her hummus. 

On the right of him is the 57th street subway station, the exit on the other side of the street, and some passers-by will stop at his cart and take their time deciding on what they want to eat, before they rush off across the street and down the stairs, hurriedly munching on the food they’ve just bought, as if they’re going to miss their train. There is one nearly every five minutes apart, judging from the people coming out the exit. Numbers are kind of interesting to Art. He thinks he could have considered a career as a math teacher had he actually gone to college instead of staying behind in New York after high school to work, because he really does love the city. Perhaps one day he’ll go back to get his diploma, but for now, the work he does is enjoyable. He works alone, yet talks to people, all kinds of people, all day. 

He squints at the building on the other side of the intersection. Above the entrance with its five arches are three flags. An American flag waves proudly in the middle with two other flags on each side sporting the name Carnegie Hall. Art is most interested in seeing if there is an event planned in the concert hall for this evening, because that would mean that if he’s lucky, the evening crowd might buy from his cart before enjoying the concert. He can’t really read any signs from across the street though, so he makes a mental note to cross the street later to take a peek. Classical music events bring in a more…prosperous audience, so to speak. They don’t always want to be seen buying food from a street cart, but some do take advantage of the convenience of available food in such close proximity to the music hall. He would also like to think that the food he makes isn’t the worst, and that people actually tell others to try some of his menu. 

On the other side of the road from Carnegie Hall, behind the Chase Bank, is the Park Hyatt hotel, and even the richer tourists can sometimes be found having a quick snack between splurging on other items they buy in the shops nearby. That, and he’s only two blocks away from the south entrance of Central Park, so families or tourists having spent a relaxing day in the park might stop by on their way back into the city. On a sunny day like this, he sometimes rakes in double the amount than on rainy and dreary days. This is why Art always checks the weather report to calculate how many ingredients he needs to buy. 

Based on all of these parameters that he reviews in his head, he thinks today is going to be a good day. Since his cart is small and not one of those immovable large kiosks, he’s had to keep his menu short. Falafels, mainly, and then a few flavors of hummus (spicy, garlicky, plain and with curry) and some different sauces like mint yoghurt sauce, lemon sauce, tomato sauce, and tahin sesame sauce. He can throw a quick falafel wrap together with flatbread or serve the falafels with some greens and salads. His cart only has enough room to warm some food and to keep other food cool. He’s been thinking about also selling some drinks like water and soda, but with the current size of his cart, that’s not possible. 

The main part of his work day is done in the early morning hours, when he takes the ingredients he usually buys the night before in the larger grocery store a few blocks from his room out of the fridge and prepares the falafels and the sauces beforehand. It is only after mixing the sauces and slicing up some vegetables, that he stores everything in his cart and drives it up to where he is standing now on the street. He lives in a shared place with two other guys in Hunter’s Point, Queens, but he doesn’t see too much of his housemates, if he’s being honest. Art wonders where they eat or if they even do in the first place, because the only time he’s seen one of his housemates in the kitchen was a few months ago, and since the guy had grown a beard, Art had momentarily been on the verge of calling the police, being sure that he had just caught an intruder in action. It was only after Jason – he thinks that’s the guy’s name – had ensured him that he did, in fact, pay one third of the rent and waved the house key in his face, that Art had lowered the telephone receiver and had stammered an uncomfortable apology. Art racks his brain, but he’s not sure he can even recall the name of his second housemate. Maybe George? No, Roy? Lloyd? 

It doesn’t matter much, anyway, as long as the three of them come up with the rent each month. He leaves his part in an envelope under the phone book in the hallway and one of the others takes care of paying the landlord. The best thing about the house is that it lies on the corner of two roads converging and there is a gate behind the house with a small terrace, where he can stall his scooter-driven cart at night. It takes about half an hour, depending on traffic, getting from his home to Carnegie Hall. He’ll usually take the route across the Queensboro Bridge, but he takes the ferry across the East River too sometimes. 

By 10am Art is nearly finished setting up his cart. It’s still too early for the lunch hour crowd to stop by, but in about half an hour, the first customers will show up, most of them looking for something quick to eat before they head to the park, and some others getting a bit hungry after skipping breakfast and not having snacks at the office. Art makes sure the food he has prepared that morning is all ready, and checks the aluminum foil and the small paper plates, making sure he has enough ready to start serving and wrapping. 

He is just setting up his little foldable stool under one of the parasols and takes a sip of water, when from the corner of his eyes he spots someone on the other side of the road, in front of the subway station entrance, laying down his guitar case. Art squints; he doesn’t get many buskers in the neighbourhood and when he does, he’s learned to be wary about them. Most of the time, when the music or the voice isn’t the greatest, people will actually walk a bit faster away to where they need to go, and there is less chance that they will stop to listen to the music and get some food in the meantime. 

From what Art can see from across the street, the guy is wearing a black, short-sleeved polo shirt with the two top buttons unbuttoned. He has short, dark hair and is also wearing dark pants. Oof, Art thinks, that’s going to get pretty hot real soon in this kind of weather. Sure enough, as if they’re telepathically connected, the guy takes his guitar case and moves backwards, closer to the wall of the building behind him, where the shadows of the buildings nearby provide a bit of shade from the burning sting of the sun. He lays the guitar case in front of him, and takes out a cardboard sheet from under the guitar inside, that he sets up in the open lid of the case. Art reckons it probably contains his name or some other contact information, but he’s too far away to be able to read it. Perhaps later he’ll take a small detour to that side of the road before he goes to check the listings for Carnegie Hall, and subtly pass by the guy to check out if he’s any good. 

Art likes music, and when he was still living at home with his parents, he used to sing all the time up in his bedroom. His mother used to tell him that he had a really nice voice, and some of the ladies in the synagogue used to say the same thing, but he has never consciously contemplated doing something professionally with his singing talent. He has never learned to play an instrument and it’s not as if he knows how to write lyrics. Besides, if he wasn’t singing, he was helping his mother in the kitchen preparing food. Art loves cooking. The way to combine produce and condiments, and make them into something delicious, has always felt like a work of art to him. Cooks are just as much artists to him than musicians or painters. It’s a different kind of art, but it’s a craft all the same. 

The falafels he makes are from an oriental recipe handed down to him from his grandparents, who moved to the USA from Romania. His father used to tell stories that his mother had learned it from an Egyptian immigrant that lived close to them, but that’s all he knows. In any case, in early sixties New York it’s been gradually gaining popularity, and people, especially business people who haven’t had time to prepare lunch at their homes in the early morning rush, are curious enough about what can be done with chickpeas to stop a while and have a bite or two. 

In fact, as the musician from across the street starts playing the first notes, plucking his guitar’s strings, there’s a guy coming from the subway station, who glances at the guitar player shortly before crossing the street and walking in the direction of Art’s cart. The man scans the menu and orders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get that completely,” Art says, as he’s also trying to listen to the music with one ear. The sounds of the city and the traffic on 7th Avenue tune out most of the guitar. Sometimes a few notes will float over, and Art doesn’t think it sounds too bad. It’s kind of captivating, actually, because the musician seems a bit small in stature, but his hand flies over the frets of the instrument as he’s strumming and fingerpicking different chords. 

“Not bad eh?” the man tells him after repeating the order and looking across the street. “Oh, and add some tomato sauce, will you?” he continues.

“Yup, sure thing,” Art says, but he’s not entirely sure if he’s acknowledging the order or his customer’s statement about the music and the busker on the other side of the road. Art has to admit he’s getting curious now.


	2. Chapter 2

On the following day, the sun is hidden behind a cover of white-grey clouds, but it’s still warm outside. Yesterday’s heat has never really gone away during the night. The bricks of the buildings around Art keep the warmth of the sun trapped within them, releasing it still in the early morning, as if the sun just kept on shining through the night. Art feels the humidity of the New York summer all around him. His t-shirt is plastered to his back again, sweat running down in small rivulets. He dries his forehead with a paper tissue and sighs contentedly when he feels a little breeze through the air, giving him the illusion that at least some of the biggest heat is dispersed with the gust. 

The wind also carries the sound of musical notes floating by. He glances at the other side of the street, where Paul Simon – Art did check out the busker’s name the previous night – is back plucking the strings of his guitar. He’s standing in the exact same spot as the day before, but Art notices that the heat got to him too…yesterday’s black clothes have been exchanged for lighter garments. The short sleeves of his white, or maybe light blue, t-shirt hug his biceps rather snugly. “Told you so,” Art murmurs, more to himself than to anyone else in particular. 

He’s partly surprised to see the busker return to the exact same spot. Usually they're only there for one, maybe two days at most before they vanish into thin air. Not that he is sad about that, because he has yet to hear consistent good music coming from a musician on the street. From what he heard last night the busker across the street is not bad but then again he just walked by inconspicuously to be able to read the sign in the guitar case. It's not as if he stood and waited to hear the man sing and play because he did not want to draw too much attention to himself. Still, the notes that he heard sounded promising. Now that the busker is back in the same spot Art may have another chance to hear more of the songs. 

But first he has some food to serve. It's nearing lunchtime and sure enough, he can make out the shape of Susan crossing the street in her pencil skirt, balancing on her high-heeled shoes, taking small but decisive steps towards his cart. 

“Hi Susan,” he calls. “Not too busy today, are you?” He raises his hand in greeting and winks at her. 

She smiles at him and tucks a few stray hairs back in her bun. “I wouldn’t have time for lunch if I was,” she says. Art grins. Rain or shine, Susan won’t let him down. “The usual?” he asks, and she nods affirmatively. “But go easy on the garlic today,” she warns him. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon.” 

While Art wraps her falafels with hummus, she looks over at the musician across the street and cocks her head, listening. “Who’s that?” Susan asks, rummaging through her purse to look for the money she intends to hand him. 

“I don’t know,” Art replies. “He suddenly showed up yesterday and started playing. His name is Paul Simon, or at least that’s what he calls himself. I just saw it on the little sign he has with him in his guitar case. I haven’t really had the time to listen closely, but it doesn’t seem like he’s too shabby. He can actually play.” The aluminium foil makes crinkling sounds between his fingers.

“Nice,” Susan says, while she gives Art a couple of the dollar bills from her hand. “So you’ll have something to listen to while you’re out here all day. Does he play anything we know?”

Art casts his eyes towards the sky, trying to remember if he has heard something familiar, but he doesn’t think so. “I think he’s doing some original work. Or he’s singing stuff that I don’t know,” Art tells her. 

“Hmmm,” Susan hums. Art hands her her order. Susan licks a finger where some of the sauce dripped off the wrap, and waves goodbye at him. “See you next week, Arthur.” 

“See you,” Art calls back. “Have a good weekend.” He wipes his own hands on the side of his trousers – they’re ready for laundry anyway – and then sits back on the stool, waiting for the next customer to show up. 

After the lunch hour rush, things calm down, and Art has a bit of time to look around. Mainly, he tries to keep his eyes on Paul across the street. He doesn’t know what it is, but the guy fascinates him. Paul doesn’t look like he’s a lot older than Art is, and Art likes the way the guy’s fingers fly over the fretboard. He thinks he even gets a bit envious, wishing he could play an instrument like that too. Then again, he likes the way his own voice sounds. Not that he’d ever thought to do something with it, professionally, but he remembers singing in the synagogue when he was a kid, and people used to come up to him to say they loved a specific timbre in his voice. His parents, who also loved to sing, had given him a wire recorder, and Art had used it to record two layers of his own voice on top of each other, a harmony to himself. Art prides himself in being able to figure out harmonies to a certain key quite easily. When he hears songs on the radio, he will sometimes sing along with it but in a different harmony. Though lately, he has had to keep his singing to a minimum, as he wouldn’t want to disturb his housemates. Not that they seem to be present in the house at the same time a lot, but still. Art is not a troublemaker, so he usually keeps quiet and to himself. 

Because Art is daydreaming and glancing over at the musician from time to time, he doesn’t notice the sky turning darker. It is only when a thunderclap rolls overhead and echoes between the roofs of the buildings surrounding him, he becomes aware of a thunderstorm approaching. Luckily, Art has brought one of the parasols today. He hasn’t needed it so far because the sun stayed behind a thick layer of clouds, but it can be used as a large umbrella as well, and he has often used it as shelter from the rain. 

This thought hasn’t even completely formed in his brain, when all hell breaks loose outside and thick raindrops start pouring down from the sky, wetting every surface near him in a matter of seconds. Art opens the parasol quickly, but he is still half soaked by the time the parasol offers him the necessary protection. He lets his eyes rake over the food in his cart quickly, but he had the foresight to protect that from the elements, so he doesn’t have to scramble now to cover anything. 

While the rain continues to fall down, thunder sounds louder and closer and water is now streaming down the street, filling the sewers so fast there’s almost danger of flooding. Art remembers Paul on the street and when he looks over, Paul has grabbed his guitar case, flung his guitar in, closed the lid and went to stand, hunched shoulders, in the only place where he could find some shelter from the downpour, which is the subway entrance. However, it’s no good: people are still coming up the stairs from below, and jostle him forward when they hurry outside and open their umbrellas carelessly. 

Art speaks before he thinks. “Hey,” he yells, loud enough to be heard over the hissing sound of the raindrops hitting the pavement. “Get under here.” He gestures with his hands wildly, pointing to the parasol. As if by miracle, Paul does look in his direction and catches his meaning. Paul runs up the top steps of the subway exit’s staircase, and crosses the street running, until he’s suddenly right in front of Art, panting and dripping wet, the rain weaving paths from his hair down his chin in rivulets. Paul’s t-shirt clings wetly to his chest, his trousers have dark water stains on them, and Art figures Paul’s shoes are probably soaking wet too, his socks squishing on top of the inner soles. 

“Thanks, man,” Paul says between two deep breaths. “I did not expect this kind of weather, or I’d have taken precautions.” Art notices the way Paul’s voice sounds – a deep, full rumble, lower than his own voice – before he registers Paul’s dark brown round eyes watching him with curiosity but also thankfulness. Art thinks he has never consciously thought about the particular shape of someone’s eyes, but Paul’s are large, and round, or maybe more almond shaped, and he has to shake himself out of this train or thought because Paul must think he’s really weird. “Oh, yeah, no problem,” he says, and offers Paul a small smile. 

Paul smiles back at him. “I’m Paul,” he says, “Paul Simon.” He offers Art a hand, and Art takes it, aware of the rather strong handshake from the man in front of him. Paul’s fingers touch the base of Art’s thumb and the pulse point in his wrist, and Art feels how calloused his fingers are. Art wonders how long Paul has been playing the guitar. He looks at their joined hands as if it’s the first hand shake he’s ever given someone.

“I know,” Art blurts inadvertently, and Paul cocks his head a little and raises an eyebrow when he releases Art’s hand. He lets the strap of his guitar case slide down from his shoulder and puts it down against the side of Art’s cart. 

“You do?” The smile on Paul’s face makes room for a surprised expression. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—” Art tries to explain. “I passed by you last night and saw your name on the sign.” He gestures to the guitar case where he assumes the sign is currently residing. 

Paul’s frown clears and he laughs. “Yeah, I think I’m going to have to make a new one.” He bends down, opens the case and takes a soggy piece of cardboard out. The ink of the pen he has used to scribble his name has been running and has stained. “Man, that rain just came out of nowhere, didn’t it?” he mumbles. Art just looks at Paul’s back dumbly, until Paul turns back to him, still smiling slightly. 

Paul’s gaze falls on Art, and Art knows he’s probably being weird, but he can’t help it. Paul rakes a hand through his hair and he dries it on his trousers when his hand comes out wet. “So,” he says, studying Art, “you knew who I was, but I don’t know who you are. Your name?” he asks. 

“Oh, sorry,” Art repeats, and he doesn’t know why he keeps apologising to Paul, when Paul is just trying to make polite conversation. “I’m Art. That’s short for Arthur, but hardly anyone calls me that.”

“Art,” Paul says, as if he’s weighing the name in his mind. “Well, nice to meet you, Art,” he continues. “Thanks again for offering the shelter of your parasol.”

When Art doesn’t immediately react, Paul smiles again. “You are a quiet one, aren’t ya?” he says, and Art feels a bit defensive straight away, but he doesn’t detect any malice in that statement. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so socially stunted. He may not be the loudest person in a group, but usually he’s not that silent and peculiar either. There must be something about Paul that makes him act like this and renders him at a loss of words, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“That’s okay,” Paul rambles on. “I may seem like I talk a lot, but catch me on a bad day, and you’ll see that I can be very moody and brooding. Don’t take any offence if that happens,” he warns Art. “It’s definitely not going to be personal.” 

“Okay,” Art says, pondering the way Paul is assuming that they’re going to be talking to each other regularly. Which Art wouldn’t mind, if he’s being honest. He’s definitely interested in getting to know Paul and his music a little more. 

“So, what’s that you’re selling?” Paul asks inquisitively, craning his neck to try to see what’s under the cover of the cart. 

“Falafels,” Art answers, taking a step towards the cart to lift a cover to show Paul.

“Falala- _what_?” The look on Paul’s face is one of absolute dumbfoundedness, and it makes Art giggle a little bit. In retrospect, Art figures that that was also the moment the ice was really broken between them.

“Falafels. They’re made out of chickpeas.” 

Paul’s face remains stoically unmoved, except for his eyebrows that all of a sudden reach up to his hairline. 

“You’ve never heard of chickpeas either?” Art asks, equally astonished. 

“Chick as in chicken or…or chicks?” Paul counters, wiggling his eyebrows a bit, which makes Art laugh loudly.

“Neither. They’re legumes.”

“Ah, that sucks,” Paul says, grinning as well. “I mean, I should have known, because I have never heard of a hen laying any peas instead of eggs. And it’s safe to assume girls aren’t laying anything either, let alone peas.”

They both burst out laughing again at that. Art figures he has some educating to do. “Have you ever eaten hummus?”

“Have I ever eaten _what_? Moss?” Paul echoes, and the surprised look on his face is so comical that Art just can’t stop grinning. 

“Hummus. It’s also made out of chickpeas. It’s this thick spread, or dip sauce.” 

Paul frowns, and holds his chin between his thumb and index finger. “And people like to eat this green dip?” he asks, exasperation audible in the question.

“Green?” Art asks, dumbly. 

Paul hesitates. “Well, if it’s made out of a pea?”

“No, silly, it’s not green. Here, let me make some for you, you can try it.” Art moves to the cart and lifts the cover. Paul trails after him, comes to stand right next to him to watch, and it makes Art feel a little self-conscious, but he doesn’t say anything. He thinks Paul is rather endearing, the way he is curious about everything and how he seems to be a pretty funny guy. Art is rather pleased with himself for inviting Paul over. 

He gives Paul some falafels in a flatbread with garlic sauce and a basic side of regular hummus to try. Paul takes the paper plate from him with a sceptical look as he’s eyeing the food on it.

“So this is a falve? Foalal?” Paul asks, dubiously poking a finger to the outside of a falafel.

“Falafel. It’s middle Eastern,” Art says, almost expecting Paul to give him back the plate while wrinkling his nose.

But Paul is a good sport and digs in. 

Art watches him take a bite out of the falafel, and he suddenly finds he really needs Paul to like the food he’s made. 

Paul chews carefully, swallows and then takes another bite. 

“Well,” Paul says around a mouthful of garlicky falafel. “That’s not too bad. I mean, for a pea.”

Art grins widely. Paul asks Art where he has learned to make this kind of food, and while Paul continues to eat the food he was offered, Art launches into a few moments of reminiscing about his childhood and his mother who taught him how to cook. They keep talking until a customer appears before them, looking pointedly at the menu pasted to the side of the cart. Only then does Art realize that the thunderstorm has long passed and the clouds have even dispersed enough to allow the rays of sun to peek through. He even has to squint when he looks around, the sun reflecting in the puddles on the road and pavement surface and in the sparkling glass of the windows of the buildings surrounding them. 

“Right,” Paul announces when he too becomes aware of the other person and the change of weather. “I’ll um…” He puts the paper plate in his hand down and points awkwardly to the other side of the road, picks up his guitar case and half sneaks away, nodding to Art’s customer. 

Art can’t really say much while the woman starts rattling off her order, but if he could, he is sure disappointment would be shown all over his face. 

“See you around, Art,” Paul waves at him before crossing the street and setting up shop at his usual spot, starting to play his repertoire again, just too far out of Art’s reach for him to hear the songs well. 

When evening rush hour begins a bit later, and people are looking to get a bite to eat before they make the commute home or prepare to go out later in celebration of the impending weekend, Art doesn’t have time to ponder much about their conversation that was abruptly cut short. But when, later in the evening, Art is read to pack up his stuff and go home, he wonders if he should go and say goodnight to Paul, or find another excuse to actually go and listen to an entire song. Except he is sad to find that, when he looks over, Paul seems to have already gone. Art drives home feeling kind of dejected and he silently berates himself for it. Paul is basically still a stranger. One conversation won’t change that, he tells himself. Still, he can’t help but hope to get to know Paul a little better. Perhaps they’ll even become friends. Art thinks he would like to be that. Paul’s friend.


	3. Chapter 3

On Saturday, Art is restlessly setting up his cart. He expects it to be a busy day, so he got up extra early that morning to prepare a decent amount of food. He has only sold out early one time before, but that was when the Fourth of July took place on a weekend, the weather was perfect, and hordes of people made their way to Central Park to have a picnic and stopped at Art’s cart first. 

Art keeps looking up from what he’s doing to see if he can catch a glimpse of Paul, but the spot where Paul had been standing during the previous two days remains miserably empty and Art has to tell himself again that Paul doesn’t owe anyone anything, least of all Art. If Paul decides his busking days are over and last night was the last time Art ever saw him, then that’s how it’ll be. Then a horrible thought strikes Art: what if Paul got sick after eating the falafels and he blames Art and never wants to see him again and Paul is avoiding this spot because of that reason? Art stands pouting behind his cart thinking about that when suddenly a familiar head appears on the stairs of the subway exit at about 11am. Art’s heart starts racing from barely concealed excitement, and he has to do his best to stave off the biggest smile from his face, but when Paul looks over, sees Art and even waves at him, Art can’t help but sport a grin and wave back enthusiastically. Paul hasn’t fallen ill and doesn’t hate Art for ruining everything, which comes as a relief. 

Art figures he’ll wait until after the lunch rush is done to saunter over to Paul’s side of the street and say hi, but he needn’t have worried at all, because one moment he’s checking on the contents of his cart, and the next he’s looking up into the beaming face of Paul in front of him. 

“Hi,” Paul says, and Art grins back at him. 

“Hi. So you’re my first customer of the day, then?” Art jokes, the question rhetoric. He doesn’t really expect Paul to answer, but Paul puts his guitar case down again and reaches a hand in the pocket of his jeans. 

“I was getting to that,” Paul says, when he takes some spare change out of his pocket, the coins jingling together in his hand. “How much do I owe you for yesterday’s food?”

Paul starts lining up some quarters between his thumb and index finger, but Art sputters and waves the money away. “Oh, no. That was just for you to try falafel, because you hadn’t eaten any yet. I didn’t expect you to pay for it.”

“But—” Paul begins, cut off by Art’s almost indignant “no, really.”

“Fine,” Paul relents, but he’s already back to having a happy expression on his face, sliding the money back into the garment it was dug out from. “However, when I want to eat falafel again, I’m paying like every other person, okay?”

“So you learned the correct pronunciation of the word?” Art quips, watching Paul’s mouth purse in mock dismay. 

“I practiced, couldn’t make another fool out of myself in front of you, right?” Paul responds easily, teasing, and Art shouldn’t feel half as pleased as he does about Paul thinking about him after they parted ways the previous evening. 

“I’ll uh—” Paul says, pointing back to the other side of the street, indicating that he’s returning there, and Art is sure he can’t completely hide the way his face falls. Paul must have picked up on it, because he immediately tries to soothe the flash of disappointment bubbling up in Art’s chest. “I’ll be back for lunch and _buy_ a falafel from you,” he says, putting emphasis on the fact that he’ll pay for his food this time. 

But Art isn’t looking forward to going back to admiring Paul from afar, looking across the street every five seconds and not hearing a thing either. So he scrapes all his courage together and says: “I would…I mean, I am kind of curious—” He hesitates, but Paul looks at him questioningly yet kindly, so Art continues. “I’d like to hear some of your music, to be honest.” 

“My music?” Paul repeats, hauling his guitar case back on his shoulder as if in slow motion. “I mean, it’s nothing special, but…why don’t I stay at this side of the road and you can hear it while you’re cooking?" Paul offers, and Art couldn’t be more grateful. He’ll have to explain to Paul later that all the cooking has already been done and all he has to do now is just wait for hungry people to show up.

Nodding, he smiles at Paul encouragingly. Paul huffs out a breath, as if to say “okay, then” and sets his guitar case down near the curb, only a yard or two from where Art’s scooter is parked on the pavement. 

When Paul finally starts playing and singing, Art is taken aback at how good Paul sounds. Paul’s voice sounds lower than his own, and it’s rougher, but there’s a specific quality in it that is entirely pleasing to the ear. And Art has to own up to being utterly spellbound by how Paul’s fingers move and dance over the fretboard and produce a delightful assortment of fingerpicking patterns that leave Art more than a little enamored with Paul’s talent. 

When less than an hour later Paul strolls over and Art hurries to prepare him a bit of food, he can’t help but ask. 

“Did you write those songs yourself?” 

Paul replies positively, and Art rushes to compliment Paul on this feat. Paul tries to play everything off as inconsequential, but Art is really impressed. “How did you come up with them? I mean, those are heavy subjects for a, what…19-year old to write about?” he says.

“Twenty. Twenty-one in a few months,” Paul corrects, and Art’s little squeak of “me, too” earns him a chuckle from Paul. 

“I don’t know. They just came to me. But believe me, I have earlier songs about teenage subjects too, like a song about a schoolgirl from the second row, and another one about the right girl for me. But maybe those aren’t the best to sing on the street, you know?” he says, and Paul sounds so vulnerable in that moment, that Art stops scooping some hummus on the plate he’s filling for Paul. In the back of his mind, Art also registers the fact that Paul is writing songs about _girls_ , and there may be a little jealousy flaring up from his side, but he vows to examine those feelings later, in solitude, and certainly not in Paul’s presence. 

“Well, I’d still like to hear you sing them,” Art says. “But those you have in your repertoire now…they’re really, really good.” He holds the plate in Paul’s direction.

“Thank you,” Paul says, and Art figures Paul is expressing gratitude for both Art’s review of his music and for the food he’s being offered. Paul takes hold of the plate with one hand and lowers his guitar in its case with the other.

They both munch on a falafel amicably, Art spooning a bit more garlic sauce on Paul’s plate when he sees Paul has already finished the first serving. Afterwards, Paul starts playing again just as a few people walking in the direction of the park stop at Art’s cart and place an order. While Art is preparing their lunch, he notices that while they wait, his customers all have their heads turned in the direction of Paul, listening attentively. Art hands them their food and some change, and then they walk over to Paul to throw the loose coins in Paul’s guitar case. 

After Paul has thanked them and they walk on, on their way to wherever in Central Park they need to be, Paul seeks out Art’s gaze, and his eyebrows raise as if he’s asking “What just happened?” 

Art smiles and shrugs. But then the opposite happens, and a person who has been stopping and listening to Paul for a few moments, then strides to Art’s cart and ends up ordering quite a large order of falafel and hummus for him and his friends who are still checking out Paul’s music. When they also move on with their day, Art looks back at Paul and he is sure he can perceive that Paul is thinking the exact same thing he is: that when they stay in each other’s orbit here on the street, people seem to voluntarily want to spend money on the _both_ of them. 

Art gets confirmation that Paul was indeed considering this when he later comes to stand next to Art and starts talking about how interesting this development is and how this symbiosis can be completely beneficial to them both. Art doesn’t immediately understand what symbiosis means and he doesn’t want to ask Paul to explain it to him, but he gets that it’s something positive and that it’s better for both of them if they stick together. And truth be told, Art is just happy this means that Paul isn’t looking to cross the street to go stand in his corner of 7th Avenue, when Art is more than happy to share his spot on the road. Instead, they spend the next weeks together on one corner of the street, and the plan works: more people seem to buy food from Art’s cart if Paul is playing and singing nearby, and vice versa; people waiting when Art fixes their orders seem to enjoy listening to Paul’s sound and decide that they will toss spare change in his guitar case. 

It’s one of the fastest and easiest friendships that Art has ever struck up. He is no longer working alone unless Paul has a day off on Wednesday, and between peak hours, they talk and joke when the calmer hours come up. Paul is very easy to talk to, and Art learns that Paul shares a sense of humor with him. Paul eats falafels from Art’s cart every day and Art has finally managed to talk Paul into not paying for it. Instead, Paul will play Art’s favorite songs – by now he knows some songs by Paul by heart – whenever Art requests he play them, which is basically all of the time. Art adores Paul’s music. 

Paul tells him about how he has always lived in New York. Paul grew up in Queens and is now attending college there, where he’s majoring in English literature. This side business of busking on the street is to help pay the bills and save up a bit, because he wants to move out of his parent’s house one day soon. When Paul leaves, he either has classes or has to study in the evening. He definitely has too many classes on Wednesdays, which is why this is the only day, next to Sunday, when Art is off too, that he can’t come down to the city to pester Art. Art doesn’t mind being teased by Paul on a daily basis. On the contrary, he is more than ever looking forward to the work day, knowing he’ll get to talk to Paul and maybe have the very first listen to any new lyrics that Paul has come up with. 

Art, in turn, recounts the stories of how he was born in Ohio, but his parents moved to New Jersey when he was five. However, not being able to keep their business afloat, they packed up and moved back to Dayton a couple of years ago. Art, having just turned 18 at the time, had decided he wanted to work and live in New York. His parents had helped him with buying the scooter to get him started, and now he earns enough to live a modest, albeit slightly lonely, life. He tells Paul that he may want to return to school later to study mathematics part-time, but he definitely has some saving up of his own to do first. 

They laugh a lot. Art goes home with his cheeks hurting half of the time because he has spent an entire day laughing at Paul’s jokes. Their mutual banter is easy; it flows so smoothly between them that Art knows that with every passing day, he is treading on increasingly dangerous territory. He likes Paul. He likes Paul a lot. But he also remembers the songs that Paul first wrote and eventually played for him, and they all had girls as their subject. Art glares at every girl who passes by and enjoys listening to Paul’s songs, and he hates it when they stop and talk to Paul and Paul isn’t adverse to a little bit of flirting back. Art hates to admit it, but he also gets jealous when Paul talks to him about a girl he knows from his college, who is trying to be a songwriter. Paul isn’t even hinting at anything romantic between the two of them, but Art can’t stand her by default all the same. 

It gets even harder for Art to hide the feelings that are rapidly spiraling out of control when the friendship gets even closer. This is the result of Art, by this time completely familiar with Paul’s music, humming and singing along absent-mindedly with Paul when Paul plays his most popular song The Sound of Silence for what feels like the millionth time.

Art takes a breath to continue with the next verse when Paul abruptly stops playing and whips his head around so fast to stare at Art that Art winces in Paul’s place, feeling the phantom crick in his neck as if it happened to his own. 

“What was _that_?” Paul questions urgently, and Art neither expects the tone nor understands the question in the first place. 

“Huh?” he asks Paul, blinking in confusion. “What was what? What happened?”

Paul comes up to him with the weirdest look in his eyes, and Art puts down the bowl of mint sauce he was stirring, because the scrutiny he’s currently under makes him more than a little uncomfortable. 

“What were you singing?” Paul asks, and he still sounds impatient and even a little agitated. Art racks his brain, but he really can’t come up with anything that he seems to have done wrong for Paul to accost him like that. 

“I’m…I was singing along with you?” Art tries carefully, bracing for Paul’s reply. “Should I not…do that?” he finishes, still unsure about what’s going on. 

“No, no…no, you should, you definitely should,” Paul answers, and he briefly touches Art’s upper arm. “I didn’t know you had such a nice voice,” Paul continues, leaving Art even more confused from the combination of the physical contact and the compliment Paul has just given him. 

“I—” Art begins, but Paul doesn’t let him finish. 

“Artie, what _was_ that? You were…you…what melody was that? Those are not the notes I’m singing?”

It takes a moment for Art to compute that Paul has addressed him as ‘Artie’, which is the first time this has happened, and Art can’t say that he hates the sound of Paul changing his name like that, so he doesn’t correct it. It takes another moment to register that Paul is looking at him expectantly, and the situation is so awkward it takes Art right back to the first time that Paul talked to him, when Art was constantly saying sorry. He can’t help but let another apology come out of his mouth.

“Sorry, I just. I made up a harmony to The Sound of Silence. Though it’s a bit hard for me to sing because it’s a lower harmony and my voice is usually higher. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…It’s your song. I shouldn’t have meddled with it.” 

Art looks at Paul apologetically, but Paul just continues frowning. “No, I didn’t mean you shouldn’t…By all means,” Paul says, “please do continue to think about harmonies to my songs. That was…absolutely beautiful.” Paul’s face morphs into something admiring and vibrant, and Art’s confidence is building again. 

“You…you like it?” Art states cautiously.

“ _Yes_ ,” Paul says, emphasizing the word, as if he has sensed Art’s hesitation and doubt somehow. 

“What if,” Paul continues, “you sing the higher harmony and you teach me the lower one? And we can try singing this song together?” 

“You want us to sing _together_?” Art questions again, failing to hide his surprise. 

“Yes,” Paul repeats. “I mean…if that’s okay with you?” Art can’t recall Paul’s eyes ever looking darker and more sparkling as he’s looking up at him, an anticipative glint in them that makes it hard for Art to look away.

“I…yeah,” Art says, and that’s how Art finds himself teaching Paul the lower harmony to his own song in the course of the next few days, himself taking the higher harmony that Paul originally came up with when writing the song. 

Art knows he’s already more gone for Paul than he should allow himself to be, but the first time they try out singing the song together on the street with both harmony parts fully worked out, their voices blending seamlessly together in a way that seems almost magical, Paul looking at him with large, round eyes as they’re harmonizing and Art looking back with delirious joy at how incredibly good their voices sound together, really tops the cake. 

“Artie—” Paul nearly chokes on emotion when they finish the last note, and Art definitely thinks he knows exactly how Paul is feeling, because even Art knows that this is something special they created together. It’s Paul’s song, Paul’s lyrics and Paul’s guitar playing, but their voices fusing together in perfect harmony really adds another layer to the music that neither of them had expected. Art can’t speak; he just nods, hoping that Paul will understand he’s equally moved about this.

Paul sounds hopeful and inspired when he asks: “Can you develop more harmonies? To other songs?”

“Yes. Yeah, I think I can.”


	4. Chapter 4

Singing together with Paul in close harmony is oddly intimate, and new harmonies aren’t the only thing Art is developing. The crush he has on Paul is also exponentially growing, and it doesn’t get better when Paul regularly invites Art to sing with him when Art isn’t selling falafels. Art is a bit shy at first, not used to performing in front of people. But the fact that Paul is right next to him, and Paul’s intense energy is contagious and bleeding into Art, makes Art start to enjoy their shared performances. Art bows deeply after a song is finished, whispers ‘thank you’ softly, and Paul grins giddily at him, and everything is amazing and lovely. People seem to really like their combined sound, and Paul probably makes double the amount of money he usually does. And, despite Art’s sincere protests, Paul is adamant about sharing those earnings with Art. Art tries to talk Paul into keeping the money by mentioning the college tuition fee, but Paul won’t back down and tells Art that Art also is saving up, and Art makes his songs better, and so Art really deserves some of that money.

Art isn’t worried when Paul doesn’t immediately show up on a Monday morning. There could be a number of reasons behind Paul’s absence, but Art thinks there are probably some unexpected classes that Paul forgot to mention or that Paul only discovered on his schedule late last night. An uncomfortable feeling creeps up on him though when Paul doesn’t come bouncing up the stairs of the subway later that day with his guitar case in tow and a bunch of excuses of how he forgot to set his his alarm clock.

The discomfort changes in pure worry when Tuesday also comes and goes, and Paul is nowhere to be seen. Paul hasn’t had classes on Tuesdays all semester, so it would be weird to suddenly have them now. When Susan passes by his cart to get her regular work lunch order, she asks: “Hey, where’s Paul?” Over the past weeks every one of his regular customers has probably gotten accustomed to seeing Art and Paul together, practically joined at the hip, what with the way they not only started hanging out on the same street corner but are singing together too.

Art swallows when he has to admit to Susan that he has no clue at all where Paul is. As much as their friendship has grown over the past few months, Art realizes that he doesn’t even know where exactly Paul lives. He doesn’t have an address or a phone number and he doesn’t know where to start looking for his friend. The only clue he has is Queen’s college, but he can hardly go around campus and look for Paul there, can’t he?

Yet, that is exactly what Art does on Wednesday. Since that is the one day of the week that Paul isn’t usually coming in anyway, and it should be the day on which he has the most classes, Art figures that if he just goes and checks out the campus, he may run into Paul there.

Art debates that plan with himself, because he is getting increasingly distressed, thinking that Paul may not even want to contact him. What if Paul deliberately chooses to stay away from him? Art cannot really come up with a reason why, because they haven’t been fighting. Still, the last time they spoke Paul did say something about having to think about what they were going to do in the winter since it already turned October; Paul said he wouldn't be able to play guitar in the open air when it was freezing cold. Art had been thinking about the same thing. The winter months are usually calm for him; if it’s freezing too hard or if there’s snowfall, he usually stays at home, making up losses for the colder seasons in spring and summer again. He has enough savings to be able to make it through a few months without as much income as before. He does try to sell food in the end of year period, as that’s when many people still make their way to Central Park and spend time in the city, doing their Thanksgiving and Christmas shopping.

But what if bringing it up was Paul’s way of starting to tell Art their joint singing days were over? What if it was Paul’s way of letting him down gently, and Paul isn’t just going to turn up again? Ever?

But even if Paul wanted to put a stop to their singing, Art can’t imagine Paul would have the same thoughts about their friendship. He refuses to believe that this is how it would all end. Briefly he worries about Paul having found out Art’s feelings for him, and maybe Paul is absolutely not down with any male romantic attention for him. But even if it were so, Art wouldn’t expect Paul to disappear like that, without a word. He’d think Paul would at least show enough decency to talk to Art about it. And so in the end, Art makes the decision to drive down to Paul’s college anyway, because if he can just find Paul and get Paul to talk to him, it will soon be obvious that there is a perfectly straight explanation for this, one that Art maybe hasn’t considered, in all his panic.

And so, on Wednesday he doesn’t even bother filling his cart, but he leaves home on his scooter and directly drives to the campus of Queen’s college. He has no idea where to begin this search of his, so he starts by parking his scooter near what he thinks is the main entrance of the campus on Kissena Boulevard. He then continues on foot, walks through a black gate that says “Queen’s College” in large, rounded letters and “We learn so that we may serve” below it. He studies the letter “e” on the gate briefly; it sticks in his mind because it looks like a mirrored ‘3’, and once again Art is reminded that numbers _definitely_ are his thing. He follows the path between buildings with red-tiled roofs, and eventually finds his way to a round square, surrounded by steps and a pine tree in the middle, close to a large clock tower-like building, signaling the entrance of what Art suspects is the library. Art is enthralled by the skyline of New York City in the distance and thinks about Paul’s life here, how he’s balancing both his studies and his music, how, when Paul sees some of the buildings in the distance, he must be thinking about singing his songs in the middle of Manhattan. The high-rise buildings in the distance stand stark against the blue background of the sky, as if they’re drawings and the sky surrounding them is a light box. Art shivers lightly; even though it’s a clear day out, autumn has arrived, and the crisp air causes goosebumps to erupt on his arms and his legs.

And then he loses some of his resolve; how is he _ever_ going to find Paul here? He walks around for a bit, debating with himself whether he would be able to enter the library as a non-student. He decides to walk around a bit first, in hopes of coming across students changing buildings between different classes. Perhaps there is a tiny chance that he does walk into Paul this way.

But even though he thoroughly studies all friend groups he sees, and he manages to locate the campus cafeteria, around which he keeps hovering at lunch time, there is not one indication that Paul is here, eating on campus with his classmates after class. Eventually Art resorts to actually stopping a few people and asking them if they know Paul. At first people try to help him and point him in the direction of where most classes for the English courses take place, even though they’ve never heard of a Paul Simon. But Art gives up that approach when a guy in a big rush all but yells at him “Do you know how many students this school has? How are you going to find _anyone_ in here?”

Art loiters near the library for a while longer, but in the end he doesn’t dare to go in. He keeps telling himself any time now he’ll hear Paul incredulously calling out his name. Except it doesn’t happen, and after another couple of hours Art has to admit that coming here to try and find Paul was probably more of a mistake, motivated by his panic of the previous day, than a well-thought-out plan. He has no choice but to return home dejectedly, where he spends the remainder of the evening pacing in his room, fretting about Paul seemingly having disappeared without a trace.

Thursday and Friday pass by without any sign of Paul either, and Art’s mind goes from despair to cold-heartedness, telling himself that if Paul doesn’t want anything to do with Art anymore, that’s his loss and Art couldn’t care less. But when Susan comes by again on Thursday for her lunch and repeats her previous question of where Paul is, he almost bursts out crying. So much for not caring.

Since he started playing music in the summer in this part of town, Paul has never missed a Saturday, because he knows that’s when the crowds pass by, even now that it gets colder. People still take walks in Central Park, the crunching of the leaves beneath their feet and the changing colors of the seasons still appealing to tourists and locals alike. Art can’t be sure that even if Paul didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore, he’d let these chances of performing near the park pass him by. Art is entertaining the idea of taking the afternoon off and scouring the outskirts of Central Park, trying to see if Paul didn’t just change locations. But then there’s another thought suddenly striking him, and it keeps on turning in his mind. Art is paralyzed by it and he’s so distracted that he keeps on messing up orders. What if something happened to Paul, something bad? Such as an accident?

Art dreads driving into the city the next Monday. He just doesn’t think that he will still enjoy doing this job when he has to do it without a friend by his side. He reflects on the past months with Paul, becoming fast friends, even though they were two strangers with seemingly nothing in common, just trying to make a living in a large city. And now that Paul may be out of the picture for good, Art isn’t sure if the life he led before he met Paul is the life he really wants. Maybe he should look into applying for college anyway. Art has a little bit saved up, but he could also try to score a full ride to a college that will take him. And maybe after college he could teach math somewhere.

Art is considering all of this, and he pulls his jacket closed to keep out most of the chilly wind blowing through the streets on this dreary morning. He rubs his hands together and leans closer to the heating element on his cart, trying to soak up a bit of the warmth through his legs.

His nose feels runny, and he sniffles in annoyance. And then he hears his name coming from behind him. Art turns around, but it feels to him like he does it in slow-motion, like the fact that someone called his name is something so unbelievable that it cannot possibly be real.

“Artie!” Paul calls again, and steps closer until he’s in front of Art, looking up at him with the tiniest flicker of fear behind his eyes, as if Paul is afraid that Art will punch him. And for one second, Art does entertain the notion that he’s mad at Paul and wants to yell at him, but Art squashes the thought as soon as it surfaces, because most of all, he’s incredibly relieved to see Paul in front of him, alive and well.

And so Art does the only thing his body subconsciously leads him to do. He steps forward and scoops Paul up in a bone-crushing hug, his arms tight around Paul’s shoulder blades, clinging to Paul the way an octopus would to its prey. Paul instantly relaxes, brings his hands up and returns the hug.

“Where the fuck _were_ you?” Art questions, his lips only an inch above the shell of Paul’s ear, aware that he’s sounding fraught and reminding himself that Paul is just a friend, and that that probably doesn’t warrant such an intense reaction, but he can’t find it in him to care. Art is just overjoyed that Paul is here, even though different explanations still trip over each other in his mind. “I...missed you last week,” Art states, and he leaves it at that.

Paul nods and breaks the embrace, leaning back. “I know,” he says, “I’m sorry. I wanted to let you know, but I couldn’t. And then I realized we don’t have each other’s addresses or phone numbers, and I didn’t know how to reach you. I just hope you weren’t too worried?” Paul finishes, smiling ruefully at Art.

“Well, I have to admit, I was pretty worried,” Art divulges. “Last week I even drove to your college to try and find you on campus,” he adds sheepishly.

“You _what_?” Paul asks, so much wonder in his voice, but luckily no sign of displeasure. “God, if I’d known. Sorry. Here, let me write down my address and phone number, so you can drive to my house directly next time,” Paul says, and searches his pockets for a pen and a piece of paper.

“Here,” Art says, handing him a page from a small notebook he keeps with him. Paul scribbles something on it, and Art also notes down his contact details to give to Paul. When he holds out the paper in Paul’s direction, he suddenly realizes that he still doesn’t know what happened.

“Wait a minute,” he frowns. “What happened last week, then?”

“Oh,” Paul chuckles. “Believe it or not, but I was in bed with the flu. I really wanted to come and tell you, but my mom wouldn’t let me,” he says, pursing his lips as if he wants to convince Art of his mother’s silliness.

“But you’re better now?” Art asks, and now that he looks at Paul more closely, he does detect the small bags under Paul’s eyes, and maybe a bit of an ashen complexion. Perhaps Paul has also lost a tiny bit of weight, not really detectable under normal circumstances, but Art knows where to look.

“Yeah. For the most part,” Paul says, casting his eyes down. “I’m still tired. So I can’t stay now.”

“Oh,” Art replies, and now he notices the absence of Paul’s guitar for the first time. “No problem. You should get your rest.” Art is still too reassured to be too disappointed.

“I may not be here for the remainder of the week either,” Paul continues weakly. “I have quite a bit of coursework to catch up on,” he says, but it’s obvious to Art that Paul would prefer to get right back into playing his guitar instead. “I just wanted to come down today to let you know I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I can imagine you’d have to study a bit now,” Art offers, quite unhelpfully. He would love to have Paul back next to him and resume what they were doing before Paul got sick, but he also doesn’t want Paul to lose a whole semester because he missed a week of classes and then didn’t put in the effort to keep up with the schoolwork. “Don’t worry,” he says, straightening his back. “I’ll hold down the fort here. I mean, now I can tell Susan you’re fine. She was also quite concerned about your whereabouts.” He winks at Paul, a slight smile playing around his lips.

The corners of Paul’s mouth turn up as well. He reaches out to Art and curls his hand delicately around Art’s wrist, squeezing gently. “Tell her thanks for being worried about me. And thank you too,” he says softly. The touch is short and gone before Art’s brain can short-circuit and overthink, but the hairs on his forearms raise anyway.

“Okay, I’m going to go home,” Paul continues, pointing his thumb behind him. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” Art says. “See you, Paul.”

Paul turns his back and is walking in the direction of the subway entrance, when a thought strikes Art.

“Wait,” he calls out, and Paul stops instantaneously, spinning on his heels.

Paul searches Art’s eyes and it’s all Art can do not to stride over to Paul again to pull him into an embrace.

“Do you want to take home some food?” he asks instead, “I can whip up some quick falafels.”

Paul’s shoulder’s kind of sag, but not as if he does it in defeat. On the contrary, Art watches Paul’s face light up. “I _have_ missed your cooking,” Paul states, making Art feel warm inside.

“Would you,” Paul begins, hesitating only an instant before he continues, “would you want to come over to mine sometime? You can give me some leftovers and we can gossip about everyone you served?” Paul smiles when he says those last words, and Art can’t contain a grin from blooming on his face either. “And we can do some singing? I have this new song that I’ve been dying to hear your thoughts on and sing with you?”

A warm blaze of emotion definitely courses through Art’s veins as he takes in Paul’s words, and he hopes he correctly interprets them as meaning that Paul may have missed Art as much as Art did Paul.

“Yeah,” Art tells Paul, “I’d love to stop by. I know where you live now,” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows as he pats the note in his coat’s pocket. Paul’s answering smile is blinding. “When?”

“Tonight?” Paul suggests, a hopeful inflection in his voice that leaves Art with a wildly beating heart and blood rushing in his ears.

“Sure.”

Art spends the remainder of the day contemplating why he’s so nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The view on Manhattan in the distance from Queen's college is actually _really_ pretty amazing.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s mid-December when Art finds himself warming his hands around a cup of hot chocolate that Paul went to get two blocks over, near a stall at the entrance of Central Park. Paul hasn’t been playing on 7th Avenue since he got sick in October. Art hasn’t been selling falafels every day since then either. But now that Christmas is around the corner, and people are in the holiday spirit, bustling around the city with shopping bags and making their way to Central Park or the skating rink inside, it’s the perfect time to sell a good amount of food. Paul is helping him out. He has also brought his guitar, but Paul can only play two songs or so at a time before he has to put it down and wear his gloves again to warm his fingers up. Paul’s fingers usually end up looking bright red with a hint of purple when they freeze, and Art wishes he could just take Paul’s hands and warm them up between his own. Between singing those songs, with Art joining in most of the time, Paul also helps Art with taking orders and wrapping food. And by getting hot chocolate for the both of them. Paul’s has a rather generous dollop of whipped cream topping the liquid, Art’s doesn’t. When Paul sips from the paper cup, it leaves behind a thick white foam mustache that leaves Art wanting to reach out and wipe it off. Either with his hands or his lips, he’s not sure. Or maybe he is.

Art has been visiting Paul at home regularly since he first got invited that evening in October. Despite his initial nervousness, Paul’s family had been really great in welcoming Paul’s new friend into their home. Art has obviously won a few points with Paul’s mother when he had taught the whole family the taste of falafel and hummus, and, except for Paul’s father who was still a bit on the fence about it, both Paul’s mother and his younger brother had happily wolfed down the leftover food that Art brought with him. On some days he doesn’t even drive his cart out to the city but just prepares food and takes it to the Simons. 

On such visits they usually spend time up in Paul’s bedroom; Paul takes out his guitar and they sing together, Art figuring out the harmony as they go along. Paul also records their voices and they listen to their blending voices together, trying to improve. Sometimes, Paul spends time studying a bit, and Art sits on his bed reading. 

Art figures the friendship has grown into a mutual blanket of comfort by now, and spending time together in silence is often better than each staying at their own homes. Especially for Art, who would otherwise be alone in his room in the evenings, it’s a lot of fun being welcomed as some kind of third son in the Simons’ home. Paul even got his mother to invite Art to Christmas dinner in a little more than a week, and Art couldn’t be happier. With his own family not around, Art usually has to resort to a long-distance phone call on Christmas Eve and a dinner for one. He has a few friends left from high school, but they’re all at an age of either being in college or settling down with their girlfriends or wives. Some even have a child on the way already, and Art doesn’t want to impose. But he has to admit it’s kind of amazing to have a surrogate family to spend Christmas with, and he feels all tingly inside when he thinks back about Paul just straight-up telling him, “you’re spending Christmas Eve’s at ours”. Not a question, no room for Art to refuse. He had only nodded, tears almost springing to his eyes. 

When Art had told his family about the friend he made in the past months and their end-of-year plans, Art’s mother had been really glad that he wouldn’t be alone. She had asked lots of questions about the Simons, out of straight curiosity. Paul and Art suspect that by now, their mothers have even been on the phone together. Sadly Mrs. Simon had not wanted to divulge the contents of such a phone call. 

As Paul’s graduation is nearing, Art is seriously considering going back to college to get a degree. He’s just not sure he’s got all the necessary funds yet, and he doesn’t think he has enough confidence and skill to write such a good application that he’ll be accepted on a full scholarship. Art needs some more time to think this through. 

“Bleecker Street?” comes from his right.

“Hmmm?” Art replies, momentarily distracted by the way Paul looks positively adorable, wearing a striped scarf and having his coat buttoned all the way up. The tips of Paul’s ears look red, and Art wants to wrap them between his hands that now glow and tingle from contact with the heated outside of the paper cup holding the hot chocolate. 

“Shall we sing another song or two?” Paul repeats. “Bleecker Street, maybe Sparrow?” 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Art replies, and moves to stand next to Paul, who’s trying to tune his guitar despite his seemingly stiff and cold fingers. 

“Here, wear this,” Paul says, and he grabs something red from the guitar case, and hands it to Art. Art laughs when he sees what it is. 

“What’s this?” he asks anyway, smiling.

“It goes with your cart,” Paul answers, also grinning. He motions to the cart with his chin. Art has made a habit of decorating it around this time of year with a string of lights on batteries and a red and green, very kitschy garland. 

Art shrugs and puts the Christmas hat on anyway. Paul does the same with his own piece, and together they look like two young Santas and sing two songs of Paul’s and maybe even a Christmas carol, unrehearsed. People enjoy it anyway.

When Art returns to wrapping falafels, Paul remains behind for a while, talking to someone in a suit and tie who was watching them from the side of the road earlier. The guy also orders food, and when he’s gone, Paul excitedly returns to his place next to Art, smiling at customers but Art can see it’s with the obvious desire to share some big news with Art. Paul can hardly contain himself. 

“What is it?” Art half-whispers when there’s a moment of respite from taking and preparing orders. 

Paul all but jumps up and down when he takes hold of Art’s arm and moves his mouth closer to Art’s ear. 

“That guy from earlier? He works for a record company. He said...Artie, he said he liked the music. And he was going to talk to his boss. I gave him my number and he was going to call me.” Paul’s eyes shine when Art looks at him. 

“Are you serious?” Art questions. “Are you saying that there might be a shot at a record deal or something?”

Paul shakes his head. “I have no idea. But god, this is exciting. I don’t know _what_ to think.” He then turns serious, a sudden frown lining his features. “I am already nervous. Art, will you come over for the next couple of evenings? I don’t want to be on my own when they call. _If_ they call,” he corrects. 

“Yes. Yeah, okay,” Art tells him, trying to calm Paul down a little. Paul’s face now has the same rosy tinge as his ears, and it’s thanks to all the excitement and the anticipation. “I’m sure that guy will call,” Art assures Paul. 

This is how Art finds himself cooped up with Paul in Paul’s room for the next couple of evenings. He only goes home around midnight, driving his scooter through dark and deserted streets in Queens, which, if he didn't know any better, kind of starts feeling like Cinderella leaving the ball.

Paul is _trying_ not to show how anxious and distracted he is about the possibility of some sort of career in music, but Art sees right through him. Art makes valiant attempts to distract Paul by talking about everything under the sun but their music, but then the world comes to a sudden stop, when the phone rings. 

Paul’s eyes grow wide, and when his mother calls him less than a minute later from the foot of the stairs, the color drains from his face. There is a second phone in Paul’s parents’ bedroom, and Paul takes it there. He motions for Art to follow him, and Art reluctantly does so, feeling a bit uncomfortable sitting on the bed. So he just keeps standing in the doorway, when Paul picks up the horn and utters a very unsure and soft ‘hello?’

Art tracks Paul’s facial expression’s changes carefully, but Paul seems to be able to keep his emotions in check. Art hears Paul say ‘uh huh’ and ‘yeah’ a couple of times. “Yeah, he’s—” Paul starts to mention, and then stops, listening intently. Art isn’t any wiser about which direction this phone call is going in at all, when Paul says goodbye and puts down the horn. 

“Well?” Art questions urgently. “Was it the guy from the record company? What did they say?” 

Paul just keeps staring at him.

“Paul?” Art asks, raising his eyebrows in wonder. 

Paul gets up from the bed, brushes past Art, yanks on his arm to indicate to follow him and marches back to his own bedroom, closing the door as soon as Art is inside. Paul spins on his feet and resumes staring at Art, his eyes large and dark and just as unreadable as the rest of the expression on his face. 

Art shuffles uncomfortably, not knowing what to expect, hoping for the best but fearing the worst. 

“Paul, was that them? What did they say?”

Art sees the wheels in Paul’s head turn, but it seems like Paul has lost all capability of forming coherent speech. Eventually, he stammers: “They...they are actually considering a studio album.” 

Art blinks, wondering if he heard it correctly. He moves closer to Paul and puts both of his hands on Paul’s shoulders, shaking his friend a little.

“Did you say album?” Art questions, his voice raised in disbelief, almost sounding like a rusty squeak. “Are they offering you a record deal? For a _whole album_?”

Paul nods, still in shock. He raises his head again and looks up at Art, and Art just can’t take it. He crushes their chests together and hugs Paul closely, almost burying his face in Paul’s neck. 

“Oh my god, Paul, that is _amazing_ ,” Art exclaims, his words muffled by Paul’s hair. “I _knew_ it. I knew someone would see how good you are! I’m so happy for you.”

Paul pulls back and searches Art’s face, a strange expression in his eyes. There’s a definite amount of excitement in there, but, if Art can read it correctly, it’s mixed with worry and doubt. 

“I mean,” Art says, putting a bit more distance between them so he can really _see_ Paul’s reaction, “you _are_ going to take them up on their offer, right? Or are you hesitating?” 

Paul shakes his head, a very weak smile appearing below the worry lines on his forehead. “I am going to...but I was just...what do you mean, happy for _me_? They want _you,_ too!”

It takes a moment for Art to process what Paul is saying, and he takes a step back, almost falling butt-first into Paul’s desk chair. He rubs his hand over his forehead. This isn’t exactly how he envisioned the next few years of his life to go. 

“Are you saying they want to sign us both?” Art carefully asks, attempting to keep the disbelief out of his voice, but failing miserably.

“Yes!” Paul all but shouts. “Did you really have any doubt about that?” he continues, but stops when he sees Art’s face. A thought seems to strike him, and from the looks of it, it’s not the happiest idea. 

“You don’t want this?” Paul questions, stepping forward again and bumping into one of Art’s knees with his own. 

“I just didn’t think…” Art sighs. “I mean, I don’t want to get in the way of your chance at this. They’re your songs, I don’t want you to start resenting me for stealing your thunder or something, somehow.”

“Oh my god,” Paul says, and moves another step closer, his hand coming up to rub a circle just under the nape of Art’s neck. “You’re not stealing my thunder. I’d feel a lot better if you would sing with me, because for some reason, the thought of doing this alone is entirely...let’s just say I’m not sure I’d even want to do this if it’s not with you.”

“Are you crazy?” Art protests, his limbs tingling under the feel of Paul's fingers on his neck, “Of course you’re doing this, Paul. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? I don’t think I could contribute anything to—”

“Listen to me closely,” Paul interrupts, his eyes flaming, “I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. I want you to sing harmony with me. Okay? Your voice just makes the songs better. It’s just the way it is.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me on this,” Paul says, his tone final but not angry. “I’m telling you the truth.” Paul’s hand squeezes the skin between Art’s shoulder blades. “But I’m getting the feeling that you are not happy to make an album with me.” His shoulders sag dejectedly. 

“No, it’s not that,” Art argues. “You know I love to sing with you.” Paul’s face brightens a little at that, but he still doesn’t look happy. “I just didn’t think...I mean, a record deal, Paul?” Art says, his voice full of astonishment. “I was thinking of maybe going to college, applying for a scholarship. Making an album wasn’t...I just never considered it as a real possibility.” 

“Going back to school and making an album aren’t mutually exclusive,” Paul says. “Perhaps you could use some of the earnings on tuition. Or a bigger falafel cart so you could expand your side business,” he adds, smiling. “Also, you going back to school is great! That’s such a big decision! I’m happy for you too.”

Art considers it for a moment. Even if the record flopped, they would indeed get paid _something_ for making it, and he _could_ use the money. He guesses he’s just still very wary of what making music and singing with Paul in a professional environment would do to his and Paul’s friendship. It’s already hard enough now, not being able to act on how he really feels. What if they do gain some local fame and girls throw themselves at their feet, at Paul’s feet, and Art just has to stand by and watch Paul fall in love with someone else. Then again, he thinks, even if they just remain two regular people in New York who just happen to sing together and made an album once, and Paul falls in love with a classmate or another girl anyway, there’s nothing he can do either. Art comes to the conclusion he’s out of excuses. Maybe he just has to take this plunge and see where it leads. 

“Well, if you’re sure you’re fine with me tagging along with you for the record…?”

“Dammit, Art, of _course_ I’m fine with it.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Art says, raising his hands in surrender, his elbows perched on the desk in front of him, “I’ll sing with you on this record if that’ll get you off my case.” Art grins, earning a bright and toothy smile from Paul in return. Paul steps even closer and gives Art a one-armed hug from behind. 

“Ugh, I’m so happy,” Paul says, a bit above Art’s ear, and Art’s head bumps against Paul’s shoulder in the hug. “I don’t know what to do with myself. Like, can you believe it? Us, having a record deal?”

“It’s not a done deal yet,” Art states matter-of-factly, but Paul knows he’s joking.

“What a Bettie Downer you are!” he tells Art, releasing Art from his arm’s grip and taking a few steps toward his bed. “I don’t care, I’m so happy I could kiss you.” 

Art freezes, but instead of laughing it off as a joke, the way Paul intended it, Art mutters, “Suppose you did” under his breath absent-mindedly, his earlier musings still on a loop in his mind. 

Art hears rather than sees Paul turn on his heels, and it’s only then that Art realizes what exactly it is that he’s just implied. 

“What?” Paul asks.

“What?” Art repeats, standing up from the chair, his heart racing and a hot flush coursing through his cheeks. 

“What did you say?”

“I...nothing, I was...nothing.”

“Art…”

“Listen, I think I’m going to go,” Art says, not knowing what else he can do to not have to explain his slip of the tongue or to justify anything. “You’ll let me know where I need to be for the record, right?” he says, looking to grab his jacket he’s thrown over the headrest of Paul’s bed.

“Art…” Paul says again, and Art feels increasingly cornered, doesn’t know how he’s going to save himself from Paul’s scrutiny this time. 

“Paul, just...don’t, okay? I can’t do this right now,” he says cryptically and with a last look at Paul, who’s standing barely three feet away with the oddest look on his face, he starts turning around and makes his way to the door of Paul’s bedroom. 

“Art,” Paul says for the third time, and trails after him, resting a hand on Art’s arm to stop him from leaving. “Suppose I did?”

“Did what?” Art turns around slowly. Paul is too close to him for comfort. 

“God, Artie, seriously?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

Art can’t finish his sentence, because Paul moves, unexpectedly fast for such a small guy, and crowds into Art’s space, tilting his head up, standing on his tiptoes, the smallest wiggle rippling through his eyebrows, as if he’s challenging Art to something.

Art doesn’t have time to think before he can act, and so he doesn’t, for once. Instead, he irrationally lowers his head, heart beating in his throat, consequences be damned, and meets Paul halfway, pressing his lips upon Paul’s just as Paul opens his mouth slightly, welcoming Art’s lips on his and deepening the kiss almost instantaneously. 

Paul is licking into his mouth and Art doesn’t really understand what’s happening; a few moments ago Art was thinking about Paul marrying a girl in the future and now Paul is crushing their faces together, his hands coming up to brush the side of Art’s face, push on Art’s scalp, play with Art’s curls and tickle his neck. 

Art kisses back eagerly, though probably a little sloppily; he’s been wanting this for so long it’s almost like he has forgotten how to kiss another person. Luckily Paul still seems to know how to pick up Art’s pieces. When Art also brings up his arms to slip them around Paul’s waist and to pull Paul closer to him, Paul carefully starts backing the both of them toward the bed. Somehow Paul manages to flip their positions so Art ends up walking backward and Paul pushes him gently down when the mattress digs into Art’s calves. Art bumps his back against the wall, and Paul climbs over his lap, all without breaking the kiss. Paul ends up sitting on Art’s lap and Art has to stretch his neck upward to keep his lips sealed with Paul, who is breathing heavily into Art’s mouth, his hands on both sides of Art’s face. 

The worst and yet the best part of it all is that Paul tastes entirely and unsurprisingly like garlic and falafel, but instead of being repulsed by it, Art is endeared and aroused by it all, feeling a shiver run through his spine. It spreads warmly through the rest of his back and on his chest like he’s being engulfed by the water of a hot bath. Art wants to move, tries to adjust the way he sits, because his erection is uncomfortably trapped in his underwear, but of course Paul’s body weight on top of him prevents him from doing so. Art kind of sighs in Paul’s mouth, and he sneaks a hand beneath Paul’s sweater daringly, so turned on he is seeing stars beneath his eyelids.

Paul definitely understands what Art is trying to do, because he kind of moans at the touch of Art’s hand on his ribs, but, much to Art’s disillusionment, releases Art’s bottom lip from between his teeth and actually moves away, leaving Art completely dumbfounded and almost mortified, hoping that he hasn’t overstepped any boundaries by touching Paul like that. 

Paul climbs off Art’s lap and Art misses the contact instantly, but Paul sits down close next to Art and takes Art’s hand. “My parents...Eddie…” Paul whispers, “we can’t...not here.” He turns his head and looks at Art, and sighs loudly, squeezing Art’s fingers tightly in his hand. “Do you have any idea,” Paul tries to explain, and Art hangs onto his every word, noticing how Paul starts blushing uncharacteristically, which is the cutest thing. “I wanted to do that for a very long time.” 

Art smiles, squeezing Paul’s hand in return. “You had me at ‘thank you for the parasol’, really,” he admits, casting his eyes down bashfully. “However, if you had not liked my falafel, that would have been the end of it,” Art continues, raising his head again and grinning like a fool.

Paul matches the grin. “Good thing I loved your falafel,” he says pointedly.

“Yeah,” Art agrees, and can’t help but lean in to peck Paul on the lips quickly. He can't quite believe that Paul would feel the same about him than he does about Paul. 

“So can we do this over at your place tomorrow?” Paul asks hopefully, a hint of mischievousness in his voice that leaves Art feeling hot again all of a sudden. “I mean...no parents…” he continues, a meaningful addition that does nothing to calm down Art’s racing heart. 

“We’ll have to be silent because my housemates may be there. And the walls are thin,” Art says. 

“I can be quiet,” Paul states playfully, raising his eyebrows, and just those four words send Art spiraling again, dizzy from desire.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Art works up the nerve to ask. “I mean, nothing will happen,” he adds quickly. Paul’s eyes seem to darken a bit anyway. “But I don’t really feel up to driving to my place now and, I mean...I don’t want to be alone, I guess?” Art always misses his family around Christmas time and New Year’s, but it seems particularly painful to be alone now, after tonight’s rather compelling developments.

“Of course,” Paul says sweetly. “Of course you can stay. I think we have an air mattress lying around here. I’ll ask my mom. Just a sec,” Paul rambles, and jumps off the bed, releasing Art’s hand from his grip, disappearing through the door and leaving Art alone for a few minutes to catch his breath. 

Less than ten minutes later, the mattress, a spare duvet and a pillow have been brought into the room by Paul's mother, who wishes them good night and smiles at the both of them before she closes the door and heads back downstairs. 

Paul hands Art an oversized t-shirt to sleep in, and Art’s first idea is to actually sleep on the air mattress, but he has just slid beneath the covers when he decides the better idea is to crawl under the sheets with Paul anyway, even though it’s a single bed with not much room to spare. Art doesn’t even have to say anything; as soon as he stands up, Paul silently scoots over in his bed to make room for Art. 

Art gets drowsy rather quickly. Paul’s legs are warmly tangled with his, and Art’s nose is buried in Paul’s neck, where the feel of Paul’s pulse beating in a steady rhythm helps a little to settle his own overflowing heart. 

“Artie,” Paul whispers as the pull of slumber threatens to take Art in its hold. “How should we call ourselves?”

“Hmmmm?” Art hums sleepily, not really understanding what it is that Paul is asking. 

“For the record deal?” Paul continues. “I mean, should we go with our real names? Paul and Art? Artie and Paul? Simon and Garfunkel?”

Art giggles softly, rubbing his hand in one eye. “Simon and Garfunkel?” he repeats incredulously. “What kind of name is that in the music business? It honestly sounds like a law firm. Or a department store.”

Paul chuckles with him. “Well, do you have any better ideas?” 

Art shrugs. He’s too tired to come up with a good group name right this second. 

“I mean,” Paul steps in again, “we could always call ourselves ‘Simon and Falafel’, I suppose.” 

Art laughs. “Paul, _no_. If we want _anyone_ to actually buy this album, promise me we won’t be calling ourselves _any_ variation of falafel...or its ingredients.” Paul also starts laughing, and soon they’re two giggling messes, desperately trying to keep more quiet so as not to raise any suspicion from Paul’s parents downstairs or his brother next door. 

Art falls asleep with Paul raking his hand through Art’s curls, and the thought of earning enough money to buy a bigger cart so he can sell soda cans. And he’s going to buy the biggest parasol he can find for him and Paul to hide under when it rains. 

\--

“The usual, Susan?” Art says, already scooping out a spoonful of garlic hummus, clutching the spoon in his gloved-up hands. Susan is carefully shuffling on the sidewalk towards them, trying to avoid stepping into most of the greyish slush that was once a thick coat of white, powdery snow. She’s exchanged her high-heeled pumps for winter boots. But the pencil skirt remains, only now Susan is wearing thick tights under it to stave off the biting cold. 

“Yes! It’s my last day before a 5-day break,” Susan replies.

“Yeah, I think I need to take a little break too after today. This cold is no fun,” Art agrees, rubbing his arms as if to warm them up when he has handed Susan her falafel and hummus. “And Paul needs to study,” he adds, looking to this right, where Paul stands a few feet away wincing and fumbling with his guitar playing because his fingers are nearly frozen off. 

Susan hands Art the money for the food and tells him to keep the change. Art gives the coins back to her anyway, and tells her to toss them into Paul’s guitar case if she doesn’t want the change back. 

Susan squints, trying to read the sign in front of the case. “Are both of your names on there?” she asks, frowning a little.

“Yeah,” Art chuckles. “Paul bought a new one. In metal,” he adds proudly. The new sign boasts the mention of both Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, and it still makes Art’s spine tingle pleasantly when he remembers Paul pushing a wrapped object in his hands and the sweetest kiss that Art gave him after Paul shrugged and said “Guess we’re a real cou...duo now” with a wink. 

“And we have that recording session sometime after New Year’s,” Art says absent-mindedly, sneaking another covert glance at Paul who is talking to a listener on the street. 

“Right,” Susan says. “That’s amazing. Remember me when you get famous, alright?” she smiles. “Better yet,” she adds, “I hope I get an invite to your concert across the street.”

Art doesn’t immediately register that she doesn’t mean a performance on the opposite street corner, but that she’s talking about Carnegie Hall. When his brain catches up, he scoffs a little. “As if we’re ever going to play—”

“ _When_ …we play Carnegie,” comes from behind him suddenly, and Paul steps closer, flinging a casual arm around Art’s shoulders, inconspicuously, like it’s just a touch between two friends, “we’ll get you front row tickets, Susan.” Paul winks at her. 

“Perfect. See you next year, boys,” she waves goodbye before disappearing into the Chase bank on the other side of 7th Avenue. 

Paul, his arm still around Art’s shoulder, squeezes his neck gently, his cold fingers causing Art to flinch away from the sensation. “Have a little faith, Artie,” Paul scolds light-heartedly. “Our names could very well be up there on that billboard one day. Christmas miracles do happen.” His eyes sparkle in a way that will never not make Art weak in the knees.

“Christmas has been over for three days,” Art replies easily, reveling in the feel of Paul’s hand traveling from his neck down his back where the pressure remains for a split second longer than necessary, before Paul looks for his gloves in the pockets of his coat and nudges Art. 

“Stop being a grinch and feed me,” he tells Art. 

Art pretends to wince heavily. “You are never getting another falafel from me.”

“Awww man,” Paul pouts. “You certainly keep holding grudges.”

“I’m going to start charging you for eating all my food,” Art says. He tries to look angry, but he knows it’s a lost cause. He’ll never be able to resist Paul’s large eyes looking up at him, blinking innocently. 

“But Simon needs his falafel,” Paul says, a look on his face like a begging cat desperate for food. “Simon _loves_ his falafel,” he tells Art, and the double meaning is not lost on either of them. 

“Fine,” Art says, rolling his eyes a little. “I’ll give you your damn falafel.” Art grumbles but he hands Paul food anyway. 

Paul bites gratefully into the soft and chewy ball. “Tell you what,” he says, “you can totally name a particular type of falafel after me.” 

“I most certainly am not naming _any_ kind of food after you,” Art says. “And I _told_ you not to call us any variation of falafel either,” Art chides good-naturedly. 

Paul cackles, while Art looks pointedly at the plaque, where, beneath their real names, in small letters and between brackets, ‘Simon and Falafel’ is carved into the golden metal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have started posting this fic earlier, because now the fifth chapter turned into a little bit of a Christmassy fic while we're almost halfway through January again...
> 
> I am 1) perpetually in the mood for falafel now...Too bad we don't have a cute guy with curly hair behind a cart selling them in the neighbourhood. And his singing friend. :) 
> 
> 2) relieved but also a little bit sad this fic is over. It took me the longest time to write it, but I ended up loving the falafel universe. Hope you did too!
> 
> *runs to the kitchen and whips out the chickpeas*
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://froyo-ravioli.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi! Also always open to receiving prompts...


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